:: Caveat interlocutor ::

Saturday, June 05, 2004

LA is a city that wears its faults on its sleeve. Ask anyone, especially those who've never been there, to name five things they hate about it in a pinch and they'll rarely be stumped. It takes time and no small amount of effort to coax LA into revealing its more nuanced self, for better or worse; its secrets are tucked away in the canyons, hills, back-alleys, and side-streets. Sometimes, as in The Limey, these hidden happenings are dark, ugly, and destructive. Other times, like in Laurel Canyon (invoking cinematic references to describe LA is perhaps a little too obvious, but I happen to have seen both these films in the past week), it's a unique brand of happy hedonism. In either case, privacy - and don't mistake it for exclusivity, there's a difference, though LA has heaps of that as well - is paramount. This frequently translates into inaccessibility for newcomers.

New York, by contrast, is a slut - and I don’t necessarily mean that pejoratively. All you need to woo NYC, and to be wooed in turn, is a free night out, a bottle of gin, and some good walking shoes. Anything and everything is at your feet, provided you have the financial and moral wherewithal. Yet while there's depth to it, New York shows its hand pretty quickly, and no matter how often you find a new tucked-away speakeasy or Yet Another Magnificent Skyline Panorama, it can recall a broken record.

Often I picture New York as a vain, attention-lusting overachiever who would cease to exist without constant effusive praise in her honor and Los Angeles as the brusque and negligent recluse, terminally solipsistic and distant. One is parasitically needy and dependent, the other couldn't care if you lived or died. Perhaps that's overly harsh. In less acerbic moods, NYC is a wise older brother showing you the ropes and LA a knowing older sister giving you the chance to find them for yourself.

Once you've taken the time to settle down and become familiar, the two places have an overwhelming power to leave you feeling broken-down and alone. They also have an uncanny knack for inspiring devotion, joy, and comfort. In the end, first impressions - LA as laconic, NY as histrionic - amount to naught.

People, as my excessive anthropomorphizing of cities implied, are like this too. And actual persons, not the caricatures of hungover ranting, fall somewhere in between. Except, of course, for me, who could not make a worse first impression. Such circumstances are so alien to me that not a week ago after meeting someone for the first time, I later called him or her "friendly". I meant it as an insult.

Another case in point is last night. In a turn of events showcasing galactic randomness and coincidence, I spied a blogger whom I admired passing by at a loft party in Brooklyn (the only reason I mention the location and type of party is because I'm not some pathetic plebe like you and I only hang out in really hip neighborhoods with hip people. I feel you should know that. I've been wanting to tell you for a while now, but you kept looking at me with those puppy-dog eyes and I just couldn't break it to you) and had just enough liquor in me to introduce myself. Odd types of people make me star-struck. Here's a sample from a conversation in which I once took part:

Friend: Hey, so this week I walked down from my office to see Anna Kournikova and Jeff Bezos doing some PR event at Grand Central. I was like ten feet away from her.
Me: Holy crap! You saw Jeff Bezos?

In addition to entrepreneurial billionaires, bloggers make me nervous. This particular one hasn't even been at it for two months. That doesn't matter. There's some intensely personal material on his blog and I admire that. To some extent I identify with what he's put up there. That doesn't mean though, that I should have said, literally, "I identify with you" or even started a conversation in the first place, seeing as I don't freaking know him at all. I pity those who are pulled into my vortex of social retardation. I swear once you get to know me, I'm as cozy as a Park Slope brownstone or Santa Monica bungalow.

Even though first impressions can be uninformative, or worse, misleading, we still place stock in them. Dammit.

Q: Hey, morland what did you do today?
A: Oh, the usual. Spouted off platitudes like a blowhard.
Q: Were they self-involved and twee?
A: Very.
Q: Did you also implicitly correlate promiscuity with overachieving?
A: Hm... Yeah, I guess I did. Wanna take the train up to Columbia and...
Q: Hey - I'm "Q:". I'll be asking the questions here.
A: But you just made a declarative statement.
Q: You think you're clever don't you?

Okay, last navel-gazing post for a while, I swear.

Posted by morland @ 03:47 PM

:: Comments ::

i was very embarassed to be sitting in the middle of the "conversation." good thing everyone had been "drinking," so he probably won't remember when you told him that you "identify with [him]." honestly, that was really, really awesome. i can't believe you "said" that.

Posted by: dr. glasses on June 5, 2004 05:25 PM

i don't get it. which blog are you referring to, westmorland?

Posted by: the guy who lived in vail on June 7, 2004 04:49 PM

holy shit, you're conversational poison.

Posted by: choistein on June 7, 2004 05:31 PM

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